(no subject)

[dreamwaffles]

Title: Necessary
Author: dreamwaffles
Word Count: 904
Rating: PG
Warnings: Unbetaed, sadly. My beta’s been terribly busy all summer and I couldn’t bring myself to add to her workload.
Prompt: Holmes/Watson-partners in crime-for king and country
A/N: I tried to make this slashy, I really did, but Holmes and Watson weren’t really cooperating, so it’s mostly just subtext. Also, I feel bad about what I had Watson do, although it didn’t stop me being strangely gleeful about calling nianeyna up and chirping happily at her about it when I wrote the first paragraph.  This is crossposted to cox_and_co because that is where the Beeton Off challenge is from.

 

Although Holmes took to the breaking and entering as if he were born to it, it was Watson who was the first to kill in the name of the Queen. The echo of the shot lingered long past the sound had faded, resounding in Holmes’ mind in time with the horrible, throbbing ring in his ears.

 

It took an eternity for Watson to lower his revolver, his once-gentle eyes steely and cold as he turned his dispassionate gaze from the corpse on the floor to Holmes.

 

“It was necessary,” he said, as Holmes stared dumbfounded at the man he thought he knew. “Necessary,” Watson repeated, and suddenly turned to vomit into a corner.

 

Holmes’ paralysis shattered as Watson heaved, and he turned slowly back to the safe in the wall, his hands moving without orders from his mind as he turned the dial this way and that, finally swinging the door open and revealing only a plain little letterbox sitting in the centre of the compartment. Holmes watched his right hand grasp it and lift it out, sliding it into the sack at his feet.

 

He closed the safe before he turned around to see Watson watching him from beside the window, waiting for him to say something, anything. What Holmes could see of his face in the dimness was pale and haunted. Holmes’ mind whirled, searching frantically for a reassurance, a platitude, a comfort, anything-but found nothing. Finally, he bit his lip, then said, trying not to let his voice waver, “Necessary.”

 

Watson swallowed, hard, but the faint sound of footsteps caught Holmes’ attention, and there was no more time for words.

 

Necessary.

 

They reported to Mycroft that night at the Diogenes Club, in one of the private rooms. Holmes did the talking, summarizing their assignment in clinical, detached words and handing over the letterbox. Mycroft listened, eyes not moving from Holmes’ face until he lapsed into silence.

 

“You were not witnessed?” he asked, looking from Holmes to Watson, who stood staring into the fire.

 

“The shot raised no alarm,” said Holmes, “The revolver is a common model. We left without detection.”

 

“Good,” Mycroft said, “You are dismissed.” Holmes’ brother glanced back at Watson, and worry flickered briefly in his eyes. “Take him home,” he added, quietly, and left the room.

 

Watson said no word until they returned to Baker Street and their quarters, where Holmes knelt to stir up the fire.

 

“I should be arrested.”

 

Holmes added kindling to the embers and considered his range of responses. At last, he said simply, “Yes. But you won’t be.”

 

“I killed a man, Holmes,” said Watson, and his frozen voice was thawing, disbelief and horror colouring the tone, “I-God save me, I murdered him.”

 

For the first time Holmes wished he were capable of comforting someone, even if the comfort was undeniably false. “We had our orders,” he said, and it sounded weak in his ears.

 

“Orders,” said Watson, and made a faint sound almost like a sob, “Orders.”

 

“You were a military man, Watson,” said Holmes, rising from the hearth and turning, desperately grasping at straws, “Surely you-“

 

He stopped at the look in Watson’s eyes.

 

“Never,” said Watson, in answer to the unspoken question, “I am a doctor, Holmes. I didn’t-I was never a combatant. I was trained, of course, but I never…”

 

Holmes realised with distant horror that there were tears in Watson’s eyes. He was not conscious of moving forward, of raising a hand to Watson’s shoulder, but when the doctor flinched he jerked back as if burned. “Don’t,” said Watson, his voice ragged, “Holmes, I can’t-I didn’t-“

 

Holmes wondered if Watson knew what he was trying to say. “Watson,” he tried again, “Watson, I-we-it’s over. What’s done is done.” He reached forward again, and when Watson did not flinch, he tried a tentative embrace.

 

Watson stood perfectly still in the awkward ring of Holmes’ arms, his harsh breathing the only noise apart from the faint crackle of the fire. “I,” Holmes began, and wondered what he was trying to say, “Watson, I think no less of you.”

 

This, apparently, was the right thing to say. Watson’s breath shuddered out in a long sigh, and he leaned his head forward to rest on Holmes’ shoulder.

 

“You should,” he whispered, and Holmes felt his shoulders tremble, “Holmes, I-how can you bear to look at me, let alone touch me?”

 

Holmes moved one hand upwards to rest on Watson’s shoulder, hesitantly. “You are still the man I have known all these years,” he said, groping for words and finding them utterly inadequate, “You are still the man I call a friend. Whatever my brother asks us to do cannot change that.”

 

The words weren’t enough, but they were all Holmes had. After a moment, Watson drew slowly away and went to the window, drawing aside the curtains.

 

“Sunrise,” he said, staring through the glass.

 

Holmes went to stand beside him, resting his hands on the windowsill. “Yes,” he said, simply. They stood in silence, watching the sky pale in the coming dawn. Holmes’ breath left a fog on the cold glass, and he shifted a trifle.

 

A warm weight settled lightly on the back of one of Holmes’ hands, hovering uncertainly, like a butterfly unsure of whether or not to land. Without looking down, Holmes turned his hand over and grasped Watson’s fingers with his own.

 

It would have to be enough.

 

FIN